That moss-cover’d vessel I hail as a treasure.
For often, at noon, when return’d from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield;
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell,
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well,
The old oaken bucket—the iron-bound bucket—
The moss-cover’d bucket arose from the well.